


Had He Screamed?

by Preda



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:18:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1856101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Preda/pseuds/Preda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The Great Eye Sees All"... Mairon's gift of sight helps him know the world like no other. Arda's secrets reveal themselves to him almost willingly. Some of them he would rather not know. Some truths he would rather not witness.</p><p>Short Silmarillion story, my first, set during the Second Age, inspired by the amazing Tumblr artists of the Silm fandom. Special mention goes to RivkaZ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Had He Screamed?

The Great Eye sees all…

It is both a metaphor, and… _not_. The gift of Sight had been Mairon’s since the time of the great beginning. Few were the workings of the world which his eyes could not unravel, given time and patience. And, at the same time, few minds could keep their secrets, their inner shadows and motivations, under the light of his gaze.

It had served him well, at first. In his youth, if there had been such a thing, he’d studied the creatures of Yavanna, how they grew and spawned, how their intricate inner structures functioned, and how each was a colony of smaller lives, all serving the greater whole, their own lives be damned. He’d watched the canopy of Varda’s stars, these shining points of light in the sky, and saw in them the power of Gods, each one able to scorch every fiber of Arda a million times over in a second. And of course, most of all he’d seen the innards of Master Aulë’s domain of earth and mineral, and how every speck of all that was could be broken into ever smaller divisions, until even his eyes hurt under the strain of magnification.

His sight had served to reveal this world to him. It had made him useful, invaluable even he’d dare say, first to his masters, and later to himself, when he was left alone, a banished evil to be all but forgotten.

Sometimes he felt like Eä was overeager to reveal itself to him. Sometimes he would get a vision, be he alone or surrounded, in battle or at peace, sleeping or woken, of some fact, some sound or some happening taking place somewhere else. He’d taken the time to study these visions well, rare and random though they seemed. From what he could tell, they were more or less rhythmic, one or two coming every few decades. By anyone’s judgement he should have therefore expected this one. Yet he didn’t: it had caught him by surprise, and left him rattled.

——————-

The sun had long set, and the tavern was finally closing. This old, respectable establishment had provided his residence in the kingdom of Númenor for the past few months, as he’d explored its culture and its people. It had been his intention to get to know these Children, these Sea-Men which held such favor with the Valar, before making his move to subjugate them. Every few years he would come to the island, under a new guise or a new identity, just one of the many travellers here to marvel at the Jewel of the West, and learn from its many scholars and craftsmen. To these people there was no Shadow in the East, no darkness looming upon the world of men, so how could any of them know their doom walked among them, clad in flesh and golden hair?

As he retired to his chambers, candles lit in preparation for a night of reading and picking at the inner workings of this mortal government, his vision went black. Before he could react the blindness had passed, leaving behind it only the faintest sliver of memory…

"What…"

It felt like something important was happening.

Resolving to look deeper, he bound his hair, blew out the candles and laid himself on the bed. In that darkness, he attempted to return, and revisit this place he’d been to, just a moment ago.

Eyes closed, he willed his spirit out, leaving his mortal disguise and seeking out whatever arcane twist in the fabric of the world that his vision had come through. To say that he found it would imply it had a location. It did not; rather, it would be more accurate to say it was everywhere, like a thinning of a room’s walls, allowing in noise and moisture from the howling rain outside. He slipped through.

There was no rain. No noise. No chaos of sound and light to assault his disincarnate senses. There was only stillness, and darkness, and each moment felt like the previous and the next. One could go mad between two beatings of their heart in such evil, maddening silence.

"The Void," he thought. The dark place outside of creation, spoken of in whispers by the Ainur of old. How did he end up here? Had the Door of Night been cracked open? Had someone snuck throug- _“Master!!”_

The thought was sudden, burning and all-consuming, like the  detonation of a volcanic cap. All of Mairon’s mind was bent towards it: _He was here!_ Living in this Darkness there was Light! The Light of the World, and of his life, stranded and alone in this howling, silent abyss, like the moon in a starless sky. _Melkor!_

Frenzied and consumed, he looked around, even as his reason told him there was nothing to look around of. There was no space here, only time, and even that unchanging. Everywhere… was like everywhere else. How do you locate something, when _here_ is _there_ and _there_ is _here?_ He looked down.

Chained black claws greeted him, vile Againor clenched tight around his hands-No! Nothis!Melkor’s. His Master was here, not him. This illusion, this mad vision had placed him behind the Dark One’s eyes, looking down upon his own chained body.

Behind His eyes, inside His head, he became aware. The silence was broken by a million whispers, and suddenly he could hear screaming. And laughter, howling and raucous. Curses and blessings, and stories and sights and sounds and memories. And tears, bitter and hot and hateful burning against an ivory face. Pain came next, as he became aware of the scars covering his arms, the telltale signs of madness and hopelessness. Broken claws were tearing at his scabs, breaking skin that had just barely healed as if mining the depths of this being for even the most painful of sensations. For pain was surely preferable to this evil nothingness.

“ _No…_ " he thought.

He willed his eyes shut, his ears closed and his mind hardened; he could not… _would not_ see this. This was not how he should see his Lord. His King. His everything. He could not bear the sight of this bare and broken wreckage!

Yet the eyes did not close, for they were not _his_ to close, and his soul did not harden… for _how could it_? Here he was, powerless, inside the head of the King of his life; he could bring no comfort, and speak no silver to his ear. He could not make himself known.

He felt despair rising like a swift tide, the ecstasy of once again seeing his Lord drowned out by the horror of the Vala’s condition. There could be no respite, no pause in His torment; for as long as He would be here He would suffer, at the hands of darkness and of Himself…

Before any other thought, Mairon began to withdraw. He was in peril of stranding himself here were he to linger any longer, unable to break away from this vile, twisted vision of his Master. And even as he felt himself slip back, out through the Door, he willed himself to stay. He could not bear another Age without him, not after seeing him for the first time in so long. But it was too late; sight was already fading, and the screaming and laughter were becoming muffled. He could no longer feel the tears on His face. The Door was closing.

“ _I’ve not forgotten!_ " he cried out in silence. " _I will never-_ ”

His eyes opened.

He was prone, on the floor, drenched in sweat and tears and blood from his clenched fists. His long hair was a tangled sprawl, blackened and dirtied by his fëa’s torment… Whoever saw him now might die of fright.

A knock came from the door. Had he screamed?

"Is everything well, Master Anna?" asked the innkeeper. A round, red woman, always generous with wine and kind with words, she seemed like the sort to worry about her guests’ nightmares. With a few words of assurance he thanked and dismissed her; a skip of the heart, nothing to worry about.

Come morning he announced his departure, three months earlier than promised. Some illness had taken him over, it seems, and he needed the wisdom of his homeland’s healers to recover. He paid three months’ price with an apology to the red woman, and left the cursed inn as swiftly as he could, not once daring to look back, nor spare much thought on the night’s happenings.

He’d considered burning the tavern to the ground. But that might have drawn attention.


End file.
